What He Saw
by WindTreesandStars
Summary: During November of their senior year, he tells her what he saw.  Finchel.


_AN: Set during November of their senior year. He tells her what he saw._

_I own nothing connected with Glee and have no connections with the show whatsoever._

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It was just a week or so before Sectionals when he determined that the time had come.

Experiences of the past two years should have had him dreading the upcoming competition. Not because he was worried they wouldn't win—they knew how to do this now, and this year's team was golden. But Sectionals was the time when, as if by clockwork, his life seemed to implode and shatter into pieces.

But this was their final shot, their senior year, and that whole "third time's the charm" had to be a saying for a reason, right? This year it would be different. He wasn't with anyone, so there wasn't anything to fall apart. No; this time, there was something to put back together.

He'd known since last spring that he would, somehow, find a way to follow a path that would lead him back to her. Each moment they shared through the rest of the season only made him more certain that she was his heart's destination, his journey's end. But when he learned that she was going away for the summer, that she had been selected to attend an enrichment program that would advance her even further and faster toward her destiny as a star, he figured out, for once, how to get it right: he let her go, unencumbered by attempts to hold her back and anchor her down; he sent her off with the embrace of a friend and a steady smile and his warmest well-wishes, asking only for her promise that she would "tell him all about it after the summer ends."

Through summer days of working and summer nights of dreaming, he planned the path he would take. He saw her, a week after she returned, at a gathering of the group. Their conversation was light, and laughter was all around. At her suggestion, they set up a time to get together as co-captains and discuss recruitment strategies for the coming year, their senior year, when they'd make the group the best it ever could be. When they met, he coaxed stories of her summer out of her. He went slowly, carefully, intent on rebuilding a bridge of trust between them, taking step by deliberate step to move forward on his planned route.

And September came, and the leaves started to turn, and the days became crisp, and the nights became cool, and school began, and he made certain that the bridge kept growing stronger, becoming wider, more solidly connecting the two of them. And October came, and the leaves blazed in glory, and the days picked up their pace, and the nights were filled with practices and games and gatherings and get-togethers, and he allowed himself to start letting the depth of his feelings show when he gazed at her and to start letting them be heard when he sang with her. And he kept up with all of his commitments, and made sure to put in motion his plans for his future beyond this place and time, because he had a sense, now, of what he needed to do to keep up with her, and because he knew that as a result of the group and of her and of all they had been through, he would be able to make it out beyond the limits of this town and into the world beyond, where she was already at home. And November came, and the days grew short, and the nights grew cold, and he observed her eyes reflecting back the flame in his own and heard her voice echoing back the passion in his own, and he knew the time had come.

He asked her, at the end of rehearsal, if he could come by that night and if she'd have a few hours to spare for him. They agreed he would come by at nine; he assured her that they'd be done in plenty of time for her to get a full night's rest. She was surprised when he showed up carrying a heavy down jacket like the one he was wearing, and even more surprised when he told her to put on some flannel-lined jeans and a sweater. After he had zipped her into the coat and insisted that she put on mittens and her beret, they walked out to his car and he pulled blankets and flashlights from the back seat. Giving her a flashlight, he said to her, "Come on," and they began walking. He knew where they were going; when she asked where they were headed, he merely said, "You'll see."

He led them to the same spot by the side of the lake, under the same tree. Now the branches were bare; last year they'd still been leafy green when they sat there and she sang her prayer for his soon-to-be-step-father under a sky filled with stars. In the following fourteen months they had grown even closer, then fallen apart; had tentatively moved toward each other only to find self-made obstacles keeping them at a distance; had survived a season in different places and had each grown, and were the better for growing. But now it was time to close the circle and get back to where they were supposed to be, to where their journey had been pointing them all along.

He spread the thickest blanket out over the ground, handed her another one, and kept one for himself. He laid down on his back, throwing his blanket over himself, and motioning to her to do the same. He put his hands behind his head at stared up into the night sky. When she asked what they were doing, he told her to watch and to wait; that she'd soon see. He heard her gasp the first time one went shooting across the sky, leaving a fiery trail behind it.

"That was a good one," he said. "I hope you made a wish. Look—there goes another." He traced its path with his arm.

With wonder in her voice she asked how he'd known they would be appearing tonight. He told her about the astronomy professor whose tire had blown while driving through town that summer. While waiting for his step-father to fit a replacement on to his car, the man had told him about the meteor shower he would be trying to watch that August night—"Usually one of the best of the year, son; even with a full moon coming up, it might be possible to see a few. But if you miss them, look for the showers later this fall." In response to questioning, he had described the various displays throughout the year, explaining that the Perseids of August were followed by October's Draconids and Orionids, then the Leonids of November and December's Geminids.

"I thought about waiting for December," he told her. "They're right before your birthday, which makes sense, because they're stars after all. But the moon will be just past full then and they won't shine as brightly, and I really wanted you to be able to see them. I wanted us to be able to see them together. And, not that we need wishes to win, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to make a few wishes on shooting stars right before Sectionals, you know?"

He glanced over at her and saw that her eyes were on him, her serious and intent look on her face. He felt the right corner of his mouth tugging his lips up into a crooked smile, and watched the slow blossoming of her smile spread over her face in response. He turned his eyes back up to the sky. A few minutes later, another one flamed across the darkness above.

"This is what I saw. Shooting stars, each and every time. From our very first one in the auditorium, I saw shooting stars. But not like these, with one, and then, later, another coming after it. I saw them all crowding in on each other, star after star after star passing by my eyes without stopping until I was dazzled and blinded and couldn't see straight. They'd keep on coming, even after we stopped, for the longest time; and with each one that would pass I'd make a wish that we'd never stop and that I'd keep seeing shooting stars forever."

The silence around them was broken only by the sound of a light breeze rustling though dry, brittle leaves, by the sound of his breath and her breath, and by the drumming beat of his heart.

Not daring to take his eyes from the sky, he spoke again.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you then. And, I hope it isn't, but maybe it's too late now. But even if it is, I wanted to tell you so that you would know. A sky overflowing with shining, shooting stars; that's what I've seen every single time we've kissed."

And suddenly the dark cloud of her hair descended upon him, blocking out the stars above, allowing his gaze to take in the blinding light shining from her eyes as she stared at him with a look last seen on her face one year ago at his mother's wedding.

And he asked her, "Will you let me try again? Will you give me another chance to try to get it—to get us—right?"

And she softly replied, "Yes. _Yes_. It'll be just like the first time . . ."

"But better," he promised, echoing the words of so very long ago on the night he saw those shooting stars for the second time. And the drumming of his heartbeat was met and matched by the beating of her heart as he forgot about the distant flashes of light passing across the night sky far above them, his vision filled with an unceasing stream of shooting stars.

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_AN: In North America, the Leonid meteor shower peaks in 2011 on November 17. It will be best viewed before the moon rises at midnight._


End file.
